


Escape

by DeCarabas



Series: Fugitives Together [33]
Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Anders is Alive and Well, M/M, Post-Game
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-29
Updated: 2015-06-29
Packaged: 2018-04-06 17:42:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4230927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeCarabas/pseuds/DeCarabas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Varric once said it's not a good story unless the hero dies. Hawke disagrees. The first morning after Kirkwall.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Escape

Hawke kept a tent and a bedroll for those jobs that required him to stay out on the Wounded Coast overnight. They’d seen a lot of use when he was with Athenril’s crew, waiting for shipments to come in, and almost as much when it had been just him and Carver scrambling for any work they could find; but ever since the Deep Roads, they’d mostly been sitting in the cellar of the estate, gathering dust. They were stored right next to an old backpack he’d brought from Lothering which he’d always kept packed with everything he’d need for a night or two—and enough sovereigns to make sure he could get by if it turned into more than a night or two, just in case things went wrong.

Old habit, drilled into him by his father. There was always a chance things would go wrong. There was always a chance they’d have to run. They always had to be ready for it.

And his father’s words were ringing in his ears now, as he emerged from the cave where they’d spent the night, set into the side of some nameless mountain north of Sundermount. The view of the valley below was completely covered by mist.

That backpack was still sitting in the estate, along with the tent, the bedroll, and everything else he and Anders owned, all completely out of reach. And possibly on fire at this point. He’d spent the night trying to get comfortable on the stone floor of the cave, staring up at the glowing moss on the ceiling, drowsing just enough to start to see vague dream images, to hear Meredith’s voice and snap back to full awareness, only finally drifting off into true sleep just before dawn.

Anders was sitting on a rock beside the ashes of last night’s fire, and he had a stick in one hand, drawing what looked like a map in the dirt, some notes off to one side in a scrawl Hawke could never make sense of even when it wasn’t written with a stick in the dirt. His hair was untied, hanging loose around his face.

Hawke sank down on the ground beside him, careful not to disturb the lines he’d drawn, and leaned his head against the side of Anders’ knee. “Tell me there’s food.”

“There’s food. Good morning.” Anders rested his free hand on top of Hawke’s head, patting his hair distractedly, and raised the stick to point across the fire pit to a small collection of presumably-edible plant life in—

“You’re using Carver’s breastplate for a bowl?”

“ _Merrill_ is using Carver’s breastplate for a bowl,” Anders corrected him. They had a few traveling cups between them, and their knives, but that was about it. “He hasn’t complained. It’s fine, it’s clean.”

Hawke grunted and clambered to his feet to retrieve breakfast. Carver presumably hadn’t just taken off during the night, then. He’d wondered. “Where is everyone? Are they—?” _Still coming with us? Having second thoughts?_

Carver had made it clear he’d be getting back to the Wardens as soon as he was sure Hawke and the others had gotten away safely. But the others—Hawke knew he could count on them to follow him into just about anything, but the trouble was, he didn’t actually know just what that _anything_ was right now. They hadn’t exactly discussed long-term plans in the chaos of last night, hadn’t really thought much further than getting as far from Kirkwall as possible.

“Supply run,” Anders said. “There’s some traders setting up along the road, with so many people getting out of Kirkwall.”

He hated to think of how much they needed, all the practicalities of the fugitive life. Something else to eat off of, for starters. _Still—they_ all _went?_ Hawke thought, not sure how safe it was for them to be seen as a group; but Anders answered his next question before he asked it.

“And it lets them avoid me for a while.” His light tone didn’t change.

Hawke grimaced, but found he couldn’t say anything against that. He just settled back down at Anders’ side to eat.

He couldn’t blame them. But despite the night on the cold ground and the fact that his estate was probably on fire right now, this was the most comfortable morning he’d had with Anders in weeks. Anders had been distant; one minute his usual caring, loving self, and the next, coldly businesslike for no reason Hawke could decipher, shutting down, shutting Hawke out of whatever was going on in his head.

He’d always kept much of the mage underground business a secret, and it had always been a sore point between them, but Hawke could at least understand the necessity of it. As much as this was his fight too, he had to admit there were far too many eyes on the Champion of Kirkwall for him to get involved in much of what Anders did without drawing unwanted attention. It rankled, but if Anders couldn’t talk about a subject, all he had to do was say so. For him to outright lie—

And of all the things to lie about, that inane story about separating Justice—of all the ways he could have asked for Hawke’s help, _this_ was what he came up with? Putting himself at risk for some ridiculous experiment? How had Hawke given him the idea that this would be something he’d be in favor of?

Anders seemed convinced Justice was something Hawke was just putting up with, as if deep down, he’d prefer the person Anders had been before they’d merged. But Hawke had never known that person; the stories he’d heard were intriguing, but he’d never known Anders without Justice—although he had to admit he still didn’t understand how the relationship between the two of them worked exactly, even after all these years. All he knew was he’d never seen a side of Anders he didn’t love. The thought of them putting themselves at risk to separate had terrified him. The thought that Anders had made this up because he believed it was the best way to get Hawke’s unquestioning support—that was even worse.

Lies and secrets and misunderstandings and all this cold distance between them—

_“I wanted to tell you. But what if you stopped me? Or worse, what if you wanted to help?”_

And with those words, it all made sense. Well. Most of it.

It didn’t make the anger go away. But it made sense. Because as horrific as it had been to witness, he _would_ have wanted to help, and he wasn’t surprised Anders had tried to spare him that.

But for the others, there was only the sudden shock and horror of it.

He should probably care about that more than he did.

He thought he could understand Isabela now. When she’d skipped town three years ago, leaving an invasion in her wake, he’d ranted to Fenris about it over a few bottles of Danarius’s wine—how blind he’d been, the sheer unbelievable selfishness of her actions. How could she let the city burn just to save her own skin?

And now here he was, doing the exact same thing. He owed her an apology.

Oh, he believed in what Anders had done, absolutely—the years of fear, the endless tragedies he’d been witness to and unable to stop, it all seemed to culminate in that moment. All the silent suffering of the Gallows and of lives lived in hiding, suddenly no longer locked up and hidden away but laid right at the Chantry’s doorstep, a horrific beacon in the night that demanded a response. It had been like something out of a dream or a nightmare, something too vivid and full of import to be real.

But he didn’t kid himself, right and wrong had nothing to do with why he’d stood by Anders in that moment. He’d never considered doing otherwise. Anders was _his_. He couldn’t lose anyone else.

Pure selfishness on his part.

“It’s a shame Isabela wasn’t around for this,” Hawke said out loud. “We could’ve used a ship.”

Anders gave him a bemused smile, plainly wondering where that thought had come from. “I always did want to try playing pirate,” he agreed.

Hawke liked seeing that smile. It had been all too rare lately. But improbably, despite everything, Anders looked the same way that Hawke felt right now—as if some weight had been lifted. The weight of these last, tense few weeks, but it went deeper than that; a weight Hawke was so used to seeing in Anders that he’d stopped even noticing it. The strain of the spirit of justice that he embodied, standing back and watching injustice after injustice that he was powerless to stop. That sense of frustration, of desperation—that was gone.

That map Anders had sketched out in the dirt was vague, but Hawke recognized a few of the major landmarks he’d drawn: Kinloch Hold, the White Spire, the College of Magi at Cumberland.

The mist that clung to the side of the mountain was beginning to lift as the sun rose higher in the sky, and in the distance, Hawke thought he could make out the road leading away from Kirkwall. And with Anders sketching out possibilities beside him, after feeling for so long like there were no possibilities to be found, Hawke thought, _Varric was wrong. This story isn’t another tragedy. This is finally escaping from tragedy._


End file.
